Not even in the warmth of a hollowed-out tree trunk was I allowed. I could see the wild hares staring at me from across the forest, their eyes like obsidian marbles devoid of life. They couldn't understand what I felt. It was a hopeless and disgusting thirty minutes-my skin made muffled screams of fear as it suffocated in the mud. I could feel myself sinking, my body dragged below.In this vast world of wonder where people fell in love, I was never meant to belong. The rain fell on me as the last few inches of my throat sank beneath the mud rising to my chin. The rain was the only thing that comforted me; it fell on me just as it fell on the rest of the forest in the countryside. To be honest, I couldn't even summon the nerve to pity myself. After all, I deserved all of this. What is an ungrateful son, a spoiled brat, even worth to the world? Eventually, my ugly face would descend into the earth, and it would all go black. So at least for now, I could stare at the beautiful night sky and savor the rain on my forehead, my eyes, my nose, my lips, my chin-even my ears. It was dark and painful, just as I had known it would be. There was nothing peaceful about my death. I remember struggling violently as all the air left my lungs, and I lost even the strength to scream.
In Tabnoth, the parallels of life were as clear as the gaps between planets. It was no accident that Tabnoth became a place for such disparity. After all, it was the ancient Gods who made this once-great land of marble temples sink beneath the surface of the deep blue. They had also unjustly sent Lord Radzik to hell. But I digress. It was Her Majesty who turned this ancient city into the dump it is now. To be fair, I forgive her. It's not like she can do anything with those phallic-brained ministers running the courts. I remember my days studying at the capital's number one school of government-hardly a place brimming with pleasant people. Today, most terrible things must happen. First, the young Lady Farenfeild Prairie has come to Tabnoth with her diseased mother. Her mother, I've heard, carries some kind of rot in her flesh. This is no surprise-the woman has spent a considerable amount of time rolling in filth and lacks even the constitution of a sow for such sport. Which surprises me, given her likeness to the creatures. The baroness has had more husbands than there are days in a year, and her daughter, the Lady of Farenfeild, surpasses even this. But now, the desperate baroness and her mother have come to Tabnoth in search of a cure. Achilles Mandicely sat on his rug, writing poems. Next to his tablet of verse and his pot of ink sat a porcelain teacup filled with Earl Grey tea. Achilles was a tan-skinned man with a handsome mustache and snake-like eyes. On his head, he wore a fez, its base wrapped with white cotton cloth. He wore black robes and smoked incessantly, pausing only to remove the cigarette from his mouth so he could sip his tea. In those days, a poet's job was to be a witful and careful critic, and Achilles fulfilled this role precisely. He could deliver insightful and, at times, even honest commentary on the kingdom's politics without losing his head. From his room on the third floor of the tavern, Achilles could see the roof of a carriage as it arrived below, pulling up to the tavern doors.